


Advent Calendar

by adelaide_rain



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Police, Angst, Banter, Cuddling & Snuggling, Flowers, Fluff, Gift Giving, Hair Braiding, Kissing, Language of Flowers, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Sleepy Cuddles
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-14 12:25:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5743801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adelaide_rain/pseuds/adelaide_rain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of short Fenris/Hawke stories I wrote on tumblr as an advent calendar. </p><p>What to expect: Hawke giving Fenris flowers (and discovering that Fenris is allergic); Hawke braiding Fenris's hair; Bethany approving of her brother's budding relationship; Fenris in the Inquisition's dress uniform; Cassandra asking Varric why Hawke came to Skyhold without Fenris - for official Inquisition reasons, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flowers

Fenris steps through his front door, and wonders if he’s in the wrong house.  


There are flowers.

Everywhere.

In vases, they line the walls of the entrance way. Beyond, in the great hall, he can see them winding up the handrails of the staircases, red and yellow and pink, lilies and roses and more that Fenris doesn’t have names for.

He stares. The floor tiles are still broken, the bodies that Fenris left in defiant disrespect are still there - this is definitely his mansion.

But the flowers - why the flowers? _How?_

Bewildered, Fenris walks forwards slowly, his hands itching to draw his sword. Is this a trap? A very strange trap?

But as he enters the great hall, his confusion clears.

There, standing on the upstairs landing and grinning broadly, is Hawke.

Fenris sighs. Of course it is Hawke. Who else would ever think of doing something like this?

Fenris winds his way around more vases placed haphazardly over the floor, some potted plants too, and walks up the stairs. Glancing down, he sees that the sparse space has become a lush jungle, jarringly out of place in Kirkwall, and certainly in his house.

“Good afternoon,” Hawke says as Fenris reaches the landing, and pulls him into his arms, into a kiss. Fenris allows it, closing his eyes, enjoying Hawke’s warmth, his scent, the brush of Hawke’s beard against his skin. But then he pulls back. He has to know.

“Why?”

“Why not?” Hawke asks, and puts a hand to his chest, a dramatic gesture followed by dramatic words. “Does a man need a reason to bestow gifts upon his beloved?”

“This is more than a gift. I could set up a florist shop.”

“As adorable as that would be, the flowers tell a story. Have you ever heard of the language of flowers?”

“No.”

“Well. Red roses are, of course, for love,” Hawke says, plucking one from the banister and handing it to Fenris. The scent makes his nose itch. He hands another flower, a pink one with frilly petals. “This is a peony, for a happy relationship - which I hope you agree we have.”

“I do, but-” Fenris sneezes. “Why not just a bouquet?”

“A bouquet isn’t enough to describe how much I care for you, Fenris,” Hawke says, sincere and smiling, and Fenris can’t help but smile in return. No one has ever made him smile like Hawke does, and as over-the-top as this gesture is, Fenris loves that Hawke would do something like this for him.

He sneezes again.

“Maker bless you,” Hawke says, and plucks another flower from the balcony, adding it to the others in Fenris’s arms. “This is a petunia, to say how much I love being with you, and this is-”

Fenris sneezes again, and again, and groans, thrusting the flowers back at Hawke, whose smile slips.

“Are you- Oh Maker, don’t tell me you’re allergic to flowers?”

“Apparently,” Fenris moans between sneezes as he goes in search of the handkerchiefs that Aveline gave him for Satinalia, with a small _F_ shakily embroidered in the corner. Finding them he blows his nose, feeling terrible.

“I’m so sorry, Fenris,” Hawke says as Fenris continues to sneeze while considering setting the mansion on fire. “Let’s get you out of here. You can stay with me until I get this cleaned up.”

Fenris nods miserably and lets Hawke lead him away.

A few hours later, the sneezing has stopped thanks to a potion procured from Lady Elegant, and Fenris is feeling much better. He’s lying in Hawke’s bed, reading, propped up on more pillows than anyone could need. 

When Hawke steps into the bedroom with a tray in his hands, he’s wearing a terribly guilty expression.

“I made you some soup,” he says, setting the tray on Fenris’s lap. “An old Hawke family recipe to cure colds. I know this isn’t a cold but perhaps it will still help.”

Fenris has a spoonful. It’s spicy and delicious; Hawke is a good cook. “I think it’s helping,” Fenris allows, and Hawke looks relieved. When he’s done he sets the tray on Hawke’s nightstand and says, “There’s something else that might help.”

“Anything.”

With a grin, Fenris grabs Hawke’s shirt and pulls him onto the bed, on top of him, and kisses him soundly.

“Oh, yes,” Hawke says, chuckling. “Kissing is a well-known cure for allergies”

“Exactly,” Fenris says, pulling at Hawke’s shirt, kissing his neck, shoulders. “So we’d best do more of it, hmm?”

“Gladly, love,” Hawke says, smiling, and holding Fenris tight.


	2. Beach

The waves wash up on the sand with a gentle sound like a breath, and whisper away again. The only other sound is Hawke’s breathing behind him, his tuneless hum. Hawke’s hands are in Fenris’s hair, braiding it.

It’s long now, almost to his waist. When they finally returned to Kirkwall he had planned to cut it, but he saw the flash of disappointment on Hawke’s face when he said as much.

And so he didn’t.

He’s never said it aloud, but Hawke likes his hair long; Fenris likes Hawke’s hands in his hair. They both get something from this.

Years ago, Fenris would have agonised over the decision – if it was truly his, whether his past as a slave might be bleeding into his present, if unconsciously he was treating Hawke as his master, bending to his wishes. A horrifying thought.

But Fenris no longer carries those worries. He is stronger than he once was, surer of himself. Part of it is just the passage of time – the further he gets from his former life, the less it affects him. But part of it was brought about by Hawke leaving him.

That still makes Fenris frown, part anger, part hurt. They’ve talked about it and he knows Hawke’s reasons – and Hawke has agreed that valiant as his motives might have been, he was wrong to make Fenris’s decision for him. But being alone like that gave Fenris confidence in himself. That he can _be_ alone. That he is complete, in and of himself. No master, no lover, no family or friends – he doesn’t need any of that to give him shape and purpose.  

Knowing that – knowing himself – uncovered a strength he never knew was there, deep beneath his lyrium-scarred skin, right at his core.

So he is happy to keep his hair long because Hawke likes it, just as Hawke keeps the beard because he knows Fenris likes it. Because it is _his_ decision, and he has the freedom to change his mind any time he wants.

As Hawke ties off the braid with a length of red silk to match the one around his wrist, Fenris smiles and turns to kiss Hawke, running his thumbs over his beard as he does.

“Hanged Man tonight?” Fenris asks, and Hawke nods with a grin.

“Definitely. Corff owes me a sovereign.”

“And you owe me a drink,” Fenris says, getting to his feet and offering Hawke a hand up.

“I’ll give you a lot more than that,” Hawke says with a wink, and Fenris laughs as he takes his hand.

“I’ll hold you to that, Hawke,” he says, as they walk back to the city, together.


	3. Clothes

Hawke’s not quite sure how Varric talked him into this.

The Inquisition is holding a ball at the Viscount’s Keep, and Hawke is to be there as Kirkwall’s Champion. He attends lots of parties as Champion, each of them as dull as the next. Political manoeuvring, false smiles and sniping disguised in compliments - all things he can do without. Since returning to Kirkwall he’s cut back on attending them because honestly, life is short and he has better things to do with his time.

Yet Varric and his silver tongue convinced him to not only attend a ball, but one that will be full of Orlesians.

Hawke winces at the thought, and slouches lower in his chair, glaring at the fire as if it is to blame for the evening ahead.

“Is this even how you’re supposed to wear this?” Fenris asks from behind him, and Hawke turns to look.

Oh. 

Maybe this ball won’t be so bad after all.

They are to wear the Inquisition’s dress uniform, at the request of Lavellan, and that is one of the reasons Hawke is not looking forward to it - he looks ridiculous in the finery.

Fenris, however, does not.

The wide blue belt shows off how slim his waist is, and the thigh high boots are-

They’re-

_Wow._

Hawke stands and turns so that he can look at Fenris properly. Gape, really.

“What?” Fenris asks self-consciously, tugging on the hem of the jacket. “Does it look too strange?”

“It looks - you look-” Hawke searches for the word, but all the blood from his brain has rushed elsewhere.

Fenris looks up at him, sees his expression, and smirks. “Ah. Not _too_ strange, then.”

“Not at all,” Hawke says, his voice cracking. Maker, those _boots_. And the jacket - it makes him look so - so- “How long until we need to leave?”

Fenris shrugs, still adjusting the jacket. “An hour or so.”

“Then get out of those clothes.”

Fenris laughs, one of Hawke’s favourite sounds in all the world, even when it’s at his expense, and walks over to Hawke to take both hands in his own. "Here’s a better idea - how about I keep them on, since you like them so much? Remove the trousers but keep the rest-”

“Yes,” Hawke says immediately, nodding and then yelping as Fenris picks him up like a bride being carried over the threshold.

“We can do it when we get back, too,” Fenris says as he carries Hawke upstairs. “Take our time with it.”

“Yes, please,” Hawke says, and makes a mental note to thank Varric for the party invitation. Terrible as it’ll end up being, this more than makes up for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist the urge to [draw Fenris in the Inquisition uniform (sans pants).](http://raininginadelaide.tumblr.com/post/134615195275/i-had-a-really-strong-urge-to-draw-fenris-from) Who could?


	4. Dog walking

It’s unseasonably warm for March. The sun is bright and warm, and all the colours seem brighter, as though they’re coming out of hibernation. Fenris is glad. He hates winter, save on those rare days he and Hawke have the same day off and they can stay inside, watching the snow drift past their window while they cuddle on the sofa.

This is one of those shared days off, but in celebration of the weather they’ve come to the park.

Hawke’s dog, Sam, is even more pleased that Fenris is. He’s running around wildly, barking in delight at trees and grass and swing sets. Hawke tried to get Fenris to join in with their game of frisbee, but Fenris declined, happy to sit on the bench in the warmth of the sunlight and watch.

Hawke is wearing a hoody and tight jeans that make him a pleasure to look at. Those legs, and that arse…

Fenris sits forward for a better look, resting his elbows on his knees and grins. Yes, Hawke truly has a magnificent backside.

Hawke turns to smile at Fenris and jogs over.

“Everything okay?”

“Very okay. I was admiring your arse.”

Hawke nods understandingly. “Can’t say I blame you,” he says, and leans in for a kiss. “It’s very admirable.”

“And you are very modest, as always.” Fenris slides his hands to the back of Hawke’s neck and holds him close for a long, lingering kiss, a touch of tongues, slick lips, an approving noise from Hawke that is more vibration than sound.

A loud tut pulls them out of the moment. When Hawke pulls back, Fenris sees Wynne, their neighbour, glaring at them as she walks past with her dog, Faith.

“Someone doesn’t approve of PDAs,” Hawke says cheerfully, and kisses Fenris’s forehead. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”

He calls Sam, who bounds over and graciously accepts Hawke’s loving attention.

Fenris has never been very good at letting things go, so he’s still seething with annoyance at Wynne as they walk around the lake.

Hawke tries to distract him with talk of Varric’s new book, of Isabela’s rather outlandish plan spend the summer sailing a longship in the Caribbean, of Merrill’s strange obsession with an unfixable mirror. And it does distract him, until he sees Wynne approaching from the other direction, Faith trotting sedately by her side.

Fenris’s eyes narrow, but then he’s struck by an idea. He pushes Hawke against the nearest tree - making him yelp - and then crashes into him, kissing him, hips grinding and generally being inappropriate.

“Honestly,” Wynne says as she walks past, loud enough that she obviously means for them to hear, but Fenris ignores her, reaching around to grope Hawke’s arse and making him give an absolutely filthy moan. Though Fenris had every intention of letting Hawke go once Wynne had gone, that moan overrides that idea.

Instead he grabs Hawke’s hand, pulls him a little deeper into the small copse of woodland.

“Fenris-” Hawke says, breathless, but Fenris kisses him into silence and unleashes Sam so that he can frolic in the sun and give them some privacy. Once he’s gone Fenris sinks to his knees, and Hawke whispers, “Oh my god.”

Fenris pauses, looking up. “You want me to stop?”

“Definitely not,” Hawke says quickly.  

“Good.”

Fenris doesn’t hesitate. He pulls Hawke’s cock from his jeans, licking at it, enjoying the taste and the choked moans of pleasure that Hawke muffles with his hand. They’ve been together long enough that Fenris knows exactly how to bring Hawke off quickly, stroking him while sliding his lips down his cock to meet his hand, humming and looking up at him, meeting his eyes. Hawke swears, and puts a hand to Fenris’s head, not pushing, just resting it on his hair while he spouts a litany of quiet, increasingly desperate curses, and Fenris’s name, too, over and over again.

Fenris smiles; hearing his name on Hawke’s lips as he makes him fall apart might be his favourite sound in the world.

Or no - the sound of Hawke yelling out after being made to come embarrassingly quickly, mere feet from a public pathway - _that_ is Fenris’s favourite sound in all the world.

After swallowing, Fenris wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and puts Hawke away before standing.

Hawke is still breathing heavily, and he pulls Fenris into a tight hug.

“Fucking hell, Fenris.”

“You liked that?”

“That was-” Hawke considers and then kisses Fenris breathless in answer, and Fenris feels him shiver as he tastes himself on his tongue.

“I think we’d best get home. Now,” Fenris says, grabbing Hawke’s hand and pressing it against his own hard cock, eyelids fluttering at how good it feels when Hawke squeezes.

“I think we’d best,” Hawke agrees, grinning and kissing Fenris once more before calling for Sam.

A week later, when Fenris gets a speeding ticket through the mail for that journey home, he considers it absolutely worth it.


	5. Rain

“Does it ever stop raining here?” Fenris asks, glowering at what can be seen of the Brecilian Forest outside of their makeshift shelter.

“On occasion,” Hawke says, and moves a little closer to Fenris, wrapping an arm around him to share warmth. “When it does we have a great feast in praise, with music and dancing and those small apple pastries you like.”

Fenris makes a disgusted noise but leans into Hawke, resting his head on his shoulder. Everything smells damp and he’s wet, and bitterness has started to creep into his thoughts whenever he’s not paying attention. Still, Fenris is with him, warm and real and _here,_ despite all the odds. Hawke is incredibly glad. Having him here makes all those regrets fade from the forefront of his mind; with Fenris with him, all those _what-ifs_ retreat, for a little while at least.

“I shall be very disappointed if there’s a sunny day and there are no apple pastries,” Fenris says, slotting his fingers with Hawke’s.

“As soon as we get to a town, I’ll buy you all the pastries they have, even if it’s still raining.”

“A true sign of love,” Fenris says, a little wry, a little sweet, and Hawke smiles, pulling him closer.

“It really is.”


	6. Home

Hawke's startled when he arrives home and finds Fenris waiting for him in the entryway, despite all the times that Hawke has told to go inside and wait in the warmth. He tries not to think why that might be, and distracts himself with a smile as he puts his sword and shield aside for Bodahn to put away.

"Fancy seeing you here," Hawke says, and Fenris nods, almost formally.

He stands and doesn't move any closer for a few breaths; but then he does, striding over and kissing Hawke hard and fast, his tongue darting into his mouth, hand on his cheek - and then he's pulling back, clearing his throat, looking away.

"Bodahn said you would be home soon so I waited. I thought - I thought you might like to spend some time together."

"I always want to spend time with you," Hawke says, and it might be sappy but they both know it's true. "Did you have something in mind?"

Fenris shrugs. "A walk? "

"Then let me get into something more comfortable."

Shortly, they're walking through Hightown together, side by side. It's still early in the evening, and there are still people around, talking and laughing. Hawke isn't paying too much attention to them, though, not when he has Fenris by his side.

"Hawke, do you remember when you gave me the Book of Shartan?"

Hawke blinks at him. "I do."

"And you gave me the Blade of Mercy."

"I did."

"You took me out to see shooting stars; you've killed slavers for me; you gave me this," Fenris says, running his gauntleted finger over the red silk around his wrist. "You're always doing nice things for me."

Hawke tries not to smile at the thought of Fenris putting both killing slavers and romantic starlit walks on his list of _nice things_. "I care for you, Fenris. Of course I do nice things for you."

"And I care for you. It's only right that I do something nice for you as well. I should have done something long ago." Fenris is frowning now; he's clearly been thinking about this for a while.

"You do lots of nice things for me. You spend time with me. Walk my dog. You make me that delicious stew. Not to mention all of the _other_ things," Hawke says with a wink, and leans in to stage-whisper, "Bedroom things."

That makes Fenris smile, even as he's trying to frown. "You do those for me, too."

"I suppose I do, don't I?"

"But my point is that I've been trying to think what I could do for you. And I think I might have found something."

"Oh?"

Nodding, Fenris changes their course to his mansion. Hawke is intrigued. Nothing that he does for Fenris is done with the expectation of something in return, and he hopes Fenris knows that. Still, he's a little delighted at the thought of a gift.

Arriving at the mansion, Fenris leads him to his room. On the table, Hawke sees a rectangular package, wrapped in red paper. Fenris picks it up, taps his fingers against the edge, then thrusts it at Hawke.

"Here."

"Thank you," Hawke says, taking it and grinning at him. "Though your romantic delivery leaves something to be desired."

Raising an eyebrow, Fenris yanks it back from of his hand and clutches it to his chest. "Oh, Serah," he says, his voice fair dripping with sarcasm. "I've admired you from afar for so long, please accept this humble gift." He thrusts the gift at Hawke's chest. "Is that better?"

"I was hoping for a kiss, actually."

"Hmm." Fenris allows him a kiss. "Now open it."

Hawke looks at it. It's wrapped well, with crisp corners, tied with a golden piece of string. He opens it carefully, but as he slides the contents out, the wrapping drops from his fingers.

It's a painting. Of Lothering. There's the Chantry, and the river; there's the inn. Oh Maker, he can almost picture the inside of the inn, sitting with his father over an drink, making him laugh so hard that ale sloshed out of his tankard. Hawke's throat feels tight, and he struggles to breathe around the memory.

"You don't talk about it much, but I know that Lothering meant a lot to you," Fenris says quietly. "I hope I haven't overstepped myself."

"No," Hawke says quickly, blinking to clear his eyes of the tears that have built up so suddenly. "Fenris, thank you, I-"

He puts the painting on the table so that he can pull Fenris into his arms, holding him tightly until the urge to cry for everything he's lost settles. It's quickly replaced by the urge to cry for everything he's gained. Leaning his face against Fenris's hair, he breathes him in, feels his emotions settle, soften. Pulling back, he puts a hand to Fenris's cheek. 

"I love you," he says bluntly, straightforward, none of their usual dancing around the subject. Fenris's eyes widen, and Hawke says it again. "I've loved you for years, and you're the best thing in my life." He can't help a smile, then, as he adds, "Well, you and my mabari."

A smile tugs the corner of Fenris's lips. "And I love you, Hawke. You, and my wine cellar."

Hawke laughs and pulls him close once more. Fenris settles into his arms, and over his shoulder, Hawke gazes at the painting. 

It was so long ago, Lothering. Part of his past, but still part of him. And the man in his arms is part of him too; his present and his future.

His home.  



	7. Tall Tales

Denerim is something of a surprise to Fenris. After the green expanse of the Hinterlands and the rainy wilds of the Brecilian Forest, it's strange to see an actual city in Ferelden.

But here it is, a city much like any other, worn stone pavements underfoot, thatch on roofs overhead, and people, people everywhere.

It's interesting to hear the accents and the languages around him as they walk through the streets; he hears a snatch of Antivan - asking about poisons, predictably - and of Neverran, which Fenris knows barely anything of, though from the man's voice, he's clearly displeased about something.

Most interesting, though, is being near so many Fereldans. There were plenty in Kirkwall, but here they're completely surrounded by people who sound like Hawke. Not as _good_ as him, Fenris thinks. No one's voice will ever make him feel fluttering butterflies the way Hawke's does, and no one, Hawke included, will ever know about that. Still though; it's curious to hear the softer rural accents and the crisper city ones, to hear hints of Hawke's voice in the words of a stranger.

As they pass the Chantry, the grey skies make good on their threat and it starts to rain, hard and cold.

Hawke, who has been teasing Fenris about his dislike of Fereldan weather, sighs himself now and after glaring at the sky, takes Fenris's hand.

"Let's go in that shop," he says, pointing to a blue-painted door across the street. "Get out of the rain."

The shop is a book store, warm and smelling slightly musty. There are a few others here, sifting through the books, of which there are plenty. Fenris reaches for his money purse, running his fingers over the coin. They need to be careful with money, he knows, but he wants to read something new. They only have two books between them, the spines sad and cracked from rereading.

Looking around at the shelves upon shelves of books, he's struck by longing to be in Hawke's estate, lounging on the sofa in front of the fire with his head in Hawke's lap and a book in his hands. He misses Hawke's library. He misses Hawke's estate, his own mansion. He misses Kirkwall. Not that he'd go back there, not without Hawke but still. He misses it, and it surprises him.

Maybe one day, he thinks, and then pushes the thought aside.

He can't go to Kirkwall but he can buy a book, as long as it's cheap.

As Hawke goes to ask the proprietor where the nearest inn is so that they can have an actual bed for once, Fenris wanders around the store. It's haphazardly organised. Books about farming techniques are placed next to a propaganda pamphlet about the Qun, which is next to a book literally titled _Bodice Ripper_.

There's a sale sign near the back of the store so Fenris goes towards it; since he's not precious when it comes to genre or even quality, he hopes he'll find something there.

It's even more disorganised than the rest of the store, half the books not even in piles, and some of them missing covers or even most of their pages.

As he looks through them, his hopes of finding something worth reading start to fade. Most of them are out-dated histories of Ferelden, or biographies of people who, a flick through the books tell him, had the most uninteresting lives anyone has ever had.

Then something catches his eye.

It's newer than the others, printed on cheap paper. It has a bright cover, even face down as it is, but the colours aren't what caught his eye. It's the author: Varric Tethras.

Fenris picks it up. He thought he'd read all of Varric's books, and he's even - very secretly - a fan. But he's never seen this one before.

As he reads the title, dismay starts to creep over him.

_The Champion's Favour._

He wouldn't.

He _wouldn't._  
  
Of course he would, as evidenced by all those parts of the _Tale of the Champion_ that Fenris got very, very angry at Hawke for telling Varric about.

Also evidence: the white-haired elf on the cover, in an embrace with a handsome, bearded human in armour.

"Hawke!"

Hawke's by his side in a moment. "Are you alright?"

Fenris holds up the book. "Did you know about this?"

Hawke blinks slowly, and takes it from his hands. "No. No, I didn't." He flicks through it and laughs loudly. "Maker's Breath, Varric," he says, and starts to read, "'The lithe elf's eyes are wide as the Champion approaches, the hulking size and bulk of the man making the elf quiver-'"

Fenris winces. It's even worse than he thought. "Stop. Stop right there, Hawke. I do not quiver."

"Oh, you do, Fenris." Hawke grins a very specific type of grin that makes Fenris's mouth dry, then steps a little closer to slide a hand down to Fenris's ass. "I found out where the inn is. What do you say to going there right now so that I can prove it to you?"

Fenris gives a strangled noise as Hawke squeezes.

"I'll take that as a yes. Let me just buy this book first."

"Hawke!"

"What? We have to support our friends, Fenris."

Folding his arms, Fenris gives in. There's one good thing about the book, and that's its size, large and weighty. "Only if I get to throw the bloody thing at him next time we see him."

"Deal."


	8. Scandal

Before now, Fenris has only been to Orlais in passing, and he wishes dearly that was still the case.

When Hawke invited him to a ball in Val Royeaux, his immediate instinct had been to decline. The reasons were many, starting with him hating formal functions through to despising everything to do with the Game. But the desperation in Hawke's eyes as he asked stilled Fenris's tongue. _I'll think about it,_ he'd said. He wishes he'd thought a bit longer.

The ball is in the mansion of some duchess or other, eager to have such a _fascinating_ character as the Champion of Kirkwall in her home, as she'd said when they arrived, fluttering her eyelashes at Hawke behind her mask. She hadn't seemed to know what to think of Fenris's presence and so had ignored him completely, a choice Fenris had been grateful for.

Hawke is dancing with her now. He's graceful as one would expect from such a skilled warrior, and though he isn't as polished as the other couples that flow around them, no one is likely to say anything. Not while either of them can hear, anyway.

Fenris clenches his jaw against a spike of jealousy as the duchess leans in to whisper in Hawke's ear. She's doing it on purpose, he knows. Not to upset him, but to fuel gossip amongst her guests.

The Game, Fenris thinks with disgust.

"Here," says a thickly accented Orlesian voice from his side, and an empty wine glass is thrust against his chest. "Refill this for me, elf."

He stares at her, open-mouthed at first, and then tight-jawed. Anger is mounting in him like a thunderhead, and only partly at the woman's assumption. The rest is at the part of him that almost did as she asked instinctively.

And under the anger is despair. It's been ten years. Will he never be rid of these ghostly chains that shackle him still?

He opens his mouth to snarl at her, but then,

"Ah, there you are." Hawke, by his side, his smile easy but a tension in his shoulders that suggests he saw the interaction. He bows his head to the woman. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Not at all, Champion!" She gives a few flirtatious wafts of her fan. "I was just waiting on a drink."

"Then I hope you don't mind if I steal my husband away for a dance," he says, taking Fenris's hand.

They pause only long enough that Fenris sees her eyes and mouth widen, and as they turn he hears the swish of her skirts and her whispered, _Did you hear that?_

"We're not married, Hawke," Fenris says as they walk down to the dance floor.

"Not yet," Hawke says easily, warm as sunshine, and Fenris's heart beats a little faster at the words.

"I'm leading the dance," he says as they take their place amongst the dancers; he has nothing else to say to that, not sure how much Hawke is teasing, but entirely sure that his reply would be _yes._

"Thank the Maker, you're better at this than I am."

"It's not hard."

" _Yours_ might not be, but don't be so sure about mine. You look _very_ nice in that outfit," Hawke says, and Fenris rolls his eyes even as he smiles. "Besides, we may not be married but I wanted to make it clear to her how much you mean to me - while also making sure you didn't rip her heart out. That makes an awful mess you know. All the Orlesians in the room would probably faint and make dancing very difficult."

As the music starts and the dance begins, they move easily. They've had a lot of practise together, parties as the Champion's plus-one, or nights alone in either of their homes, moving without music.

"These Orlesians might surprise you, Hawke. This all reminds me a little too much of Minrathous and the parties Danarius used to hold. All the insults wrapped up in compliments, the backstabbing, trying to undermine each other. Even the elves - they call them servants but they treat them like slaves."

Hawke frowns then, glances around the room that is full of humans and nothing else, save for the elven servants with bowed heads who move like they don't want to be seen. Usually an observant man, Fenris is a little surprised he didn't notice before; but then with the Duchess constantly invading his personal space, perhaps he's been a little distracted.

Now that he _has_ noticed, his frown deepens.

"Fenris," Hawke says, and then kisses him, completely messing up their dance and making the couple next to them tut profusely. "Would you like to get out of here?"

"You're the guest of honour. You have duties-”

"We're both miserable and my duties can go bugger themselves to be perfectly honest. And Varric would be very disappointed if we didn't start at least one minor scandal while we're here."  


A scandal? Oh yes. Fenris can do scandal.

Already causing a scene by standing still in the midst of the whirling dancers, Fenris puts a hand to the back of Hawke's neck and pulls him in, kissing him hard. Hawke makes a muffled sound and wraps his arms around his waist, pressing their bodies close, and they kiss long and languorous, taking their time. Fenris can feel Hawke getting hard – _he's_ hard – and they pull back, both of them breathing hard and smiling.

"Scandalous enough for you?" Fenris asks. 

Hawke looks thoughtful. "It's a start. How about we go be scandalous in the gardens? All those secluded corners."

Grabbing Hawke's hand, Fenris pulls him away from the dance floor. Leaving in the middle of a song is probably terrible etiquette but Fenris doesn't much care about that. He cares much more about finding a secluded – but not _too_ secluded – spot where they can scandalise some Orlesians.

When they emerge from behind a rosebush a quarter hour later, Hawke's jacket has grass stains on the back, Fenris's is mis-buttoned, and a dozen Orlesians are standing around pretending not to gape.

"I think the bandstand looks like a good spot for our next bit of scandal," Hawke says, and Fenris grins as they run over to it, Hawke leading him by the hand.

It's rather likely that this will end up in one of Varric's books, but all things considered, it's worth it. 


	9. Family

When she’s almost home, Bethany stops abruptly. 

There, at the top of the stairs, in front of Gamlen’s door, Garrett and Fenris are talking. Taking a step back, part-hidden by a wall, she watches. 

It’s been five months since they met Fenris. In truth, Bethany was afraid of him at first. Not the abilities the lyrium gives him – as a mage, she knows all too well the irrational fear of unusual powers. 

No, it was his hatred of mages that scared her, and the simmering anger so bitter she could almost taste it on the air when she was near him.  


But as the weeks passed, he relaxed ever so slightly around them. He watched her closely with narrowed eyes, but as he saw her fight, as he saw her go from day to day without risk of possession or succumbing to any of the crueller evils of the magisters, he seemed to accept her.  


Being around Garrett helps her see more of him, too, under the spikes and snarls. Right from the beginning, Fenris was different around her brother. Wary, yes, but she thinks a little fascinated, too. Especially lately. There’s an affection in his eyes that isn’t there when he looks at anyone else. An affection that is definitely reciprocated. 

Around Fenris, Garrett smiles more. He loses a little of that tension that’s always in his neck and shoulders, and the shadows in his eyes retreat. He’s gentle and patient with Fenris, helping him as much as he can, and asking for help in return - which Fenris always gives. And he always laughs at Garrett’s terrible jokes, which might be the strongest sign of all that there’s something special between them.

He’s laughing now, Bethany can’t hear it but she can see it in his smile, in the way that Garrett is beaming as though he’s won a wonderful prize. Fenris is looking away, as he tends to, but then he looks up, meets Garrett’s eye. They smile at each other, and Bethany has never seen her brother look quite like that. She can think of a few comparable moments from Lothering - the way he looked at the barman with the dazzling smile, or the girl with golden curls who Bethany caught him kissing a few times. 

But there’s more here. Biting her lip, Bethany thinks that her brother is in love, or getting close to it. And she thinks Fenris might be, too. More slowly, more hesitantly, but she thinks he’s falling.  


As they say their goodbyes and he turns to leave, Bethany realises she’s about to get caught snooping. Stepping away from the wall she’s been hiding behind, she walks towards Gamlen’s house.

“Hello Fenris,” she says as she gets closer, and he gives her a nod in greeting. She bites her lip against a smile; his cheeks are pink.

“Bethany,” he says, and then departs.

She walks up the stairs, where Garrett is watching Fenris leave with a smile on his face and making no move to hide it.

She pats his arm as she passes him and says, “Go slowly, big brother.”

“I know, Bethy. I know.”

She hopes he does. And she hopes dearly that it works out, for both of them.


	10. Here

Hawke’s exhausted. They’ve been fighting for what seems like hours. Fighting darkspawn that have emerged out of that damned, damned entrance to the Deep Roads that Bartrand led them down five years ago.

All of his friends are still on their feet, though spattered with blood and gore. There are even a few Grey Wardens by their side, a group passing through Kirkwall that Hawke dragged into the fight, because this is their mess to clean up as much as it is his.

There are fallen darkspawn everywhere, the dead far outweighing the living - if you can truly call the darkspawn alive. The tide has turned and victory is all but certain.       

And then the ground shakes.

A thud.

Another.

Hawke knows what it is.

Memory smashes to the front of his mind, his mother’s scream, Bethany’s whispered, broken _no_ , and Carver-

He barely had time to scream. As the ogre picked him up like a doll and broke him, _broke_ him, the noise then, Hawke will never forget-

Maker, it should have been him. It should have-

Movement, close by, pushes him out of the memory, his heart still racing, his breath still fast and shaky.

It’s Fenris, standing in front of him protectively, sword raised. Despite everything he’s been through, despite everything that’s happened between them, Fenris is here. Always here, right by Hawke’s side.

Blinking away the tears that blur his vision, determination solidifies in Hawke like steel. He couldn’t do anything for Carver, but he won’t let anything happen to his friends. Especially Fenris. Clenching his jaw, he steps forward, in line with Fenris.

The ogre emerges from the entrance to the Deep Roads, smashing the last of the rocks that were blocking the door, flinging the huge blocks away like marbles. Hawke’s hands tighten around the hilt of his sword.

Fenris looks at him for a moment, and says, “Can you do this, Hawke?”

“As long as you’re with me.”

“Always,” Fenris says, very softly, then his lyrium glows bright as the battle begins.

With Hawke and Fenris taking the vanguard, and Merrill and a Grey Warden mage assisting, it doesn’t take long. By the time the ogre falls, Varric and the other Grey Wardens have taken care of the rest of the darkspawn.

“Well, that was fun,” Varric says, wiping Bianca off before putting her away.

“Please tell me there’s somewhere to get ale,” one of the Wardens says as he sheaths his daggers, looking around at the battlefield with distaste.

“Only the best pub in the Free Marches. Come on, Wiggles, I’ll show you.”

“Wiggles!?”

As the rest follow Varric, Hawke hangs back, Fenris by his side.

“Thank you for coming today, Fenris. It means a lot to me.”

Fenris looks at him, meeting his eyes in a way that he wouldn’t have done even six months ago. He’s so much more sure of himself now, and Hawke is fiercely, desperately proud of him.

“Of course, Hawke,” he says, looking away. “I’m just glad you still want me with you.”

“Always, Fenris.”

Fenris smiles at him, and it makes Hawke feels warm, right to his core, melting away all of the post-battle tension.   


They don’t say anything else as they walk back into Kirkwall, but they don’t need to.

They’re both here, and that says everything.

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be uploading these about five a week for the next few weeks. If you'd like to read them all now, [you can do so on my tumblr.](http://raininginadelaide.tumblr.com/tagged/fenhawke-advent-calendar)


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